Wherever We Are
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Greg,Sara,and Grissom take a road trip for a cold case. And right when it's least expected, life as it was is changed. Select your own season and time for this one. We know the ultimate ending! A little bit of sweet smut by the end of the story.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: We own nothing but sand between our toes! Enjoy! This one is short, probably 6-8 chapters. _

**Wherever we are, whatever we do Chapter 1**

"Pack for overnight. I'll pick you up in an hour."

Sara leaned against the doorway for a minute. "You and me?" She asked. As she did almost every day at the end of shift, Sara had stopped to say something to him; usually her words were "Good night" even though it was dawn. He had given her no prior indication of taking a road trip.

He looked up. "No, I'm taking Greg too."

"Where? Why?"

"Greg needs the experience. I need you."

The look on her face must have communicated something.

"For Greg—you know how he is. Special request—cold case."

Sara did as he asked—or told her to do; she packed a small backpack and waited. Almost to the minute, Grissom stopped in front of her apartment. She got into the front seat; no Greg.

"Are you going to tell us or is it a surprise when we arrive?"

Gil Grissom grinned. "Think of it as an adventure."

She frowned.

He relented. "I'll explain after we pick up Greg."

Greg was waiting at the curb carrying a bag smaller than hers. When the vehicle stopped, Grissom put it in park, got out and waved Greg to the driver's seat. Sara grunted; neither man seemed to notice as Grissom crawled into the back seat. He latched the seatbelt, punched a soft duffle bag—his own—behind his head and closed his eyes.

Greg and Sara looked at each other.

"Hey, Grissom, you think you could provide directions?" Sara asked.

"Head northwest—three hours, turn right at McDonalds. Wake me then and we'll talk about where we're going." He said, never opening his eyes.

Sara's mouth stayed open as she shifted her gaze back to Greg. By the second traffic light, Grissom was asleep.

"Do you know anything?" Greg asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing. 'Pack for overnight' is all I was told!" She was whispering. "Is there a map in here?" She opened the glove compartment and riffled papers, cd's, batteries. No map.

"He said I needed the experience—what does that mean? Why are we driving so far? But—hey—I'm the new CSI so I do as I'm told!" Greg was also whispering.

Sara laughed and put a cd in the player. As music played, Greg glanced in her direction. "Not my kind of music."

"Nor mine." They let it play; Sara manipulated sound to the rear speakers.

They traveled northwest out of Las Vegas for miles before the landscape changed from desert to a long valley with lush green grasses, cottonwood trees, a small lake, and alfalfa fields. They passed an occasional roadside store, sometimes isolated, others with several houses within short distances. Some of the houses were neat, well cared for homes; a few looked abandoned with old cars and trucks left to rust in yards. The only evidence of life was the thin, ill-looking dogs lying in shade provided by scrubby bushes.

Sara and Greg could talk about a dozen topics unrelated to work—music, movies, world peace, or war or famine, alternative energy sources, politics. Most of the people who worked with Greg saw him as a lab nerd, too young and goofy or too smart to have a conversation about anything unrelated to work. Sara knew better.

They made one stop—a small lonely store with several old trucks sitting in the dusty parking lot. Grissom continued to sleep while Sara and Greg shopped—bottled water and snack foods of chips, cookies, nuts.

"How much longer? Do you think Grissom will let us eat lunch?" Greg asked with a laugh.

"Who knows—we don't even know if we're going to a town or a crime scene." Sara put their purchases on the counter and lifted an object from a rack. "I think I'll buy this!" She placed a hat on her head; it fell almost to her eyes.

Greg laughed. "That looks more like Grissom than you." She paid for the straw hat.

Almost three hours after leaving, they slowed as they entered a small town. "Is this where we find the right turn at the McDonalds?" Greg asked, looking for familiar arches. "I see nothing that looks like fast food."

Sara also watched for the bright yellow trademark curves and found nothing. "Greg, look," she said as she swung around in her seat. "McDonalds!" A large sign across a street side building with paint peeling, announced to passers-by the name of the business, McDonalds Junk Yard--added below in newer paint 'recycling center'.

Greg executed a u-turn in the street. They heard a grunt from the back seat.

"Pull over and I'll drive the rest of the way." Grissom was awake.

"Ahh—Grissom, it's almost lunch time—do we get to eat?" The young man asked as he made the turn onto a secondary paved road. They would quickly leave this town.

"Find a place. We'll eat." He stretched and yawned. "You two talked all the way—I could barely sleep."

Sara and Greg snorted a short laugh.

"Mexican!" Greg slowed and turned into a small parking lot next to a blue and yellow building. "You can eat vegetarian at any Mexican restaurant." He grinned as if he had just discovered some essential truth of life.

The three piled out of the vehicle. Before closing the door, Grissom reached between the seats. "Great hat—did you buy it for me?" He did not wait for an answer as he jammed the hat on his head. "Perfect, thanks," he said as the two younger travelers looked on with open-mouths as he walked away. His left hand waved for them to catch up.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing! No angst, just fluff with the exception of the reason for the trip--Enjoy!_

**Wherever We Are Chapter 2**

Grissom had taken a large folder in with him. After eating, he passed papers to the two. "We're going on a cold case—very cold, nearly thirty years." Sara and Greg read quickly.

Sara finished first. "Why this case? Why us?"

Grissom pulled more papers from the folder. "The boy disappeared when he was nine or ten years old—never found any evidence of what happened to him. Where we are going," he said a name neither recognized, "had a part-time deputy sheriff thirty years ago. When the child went missing, the town searched—lots of old mines in the area but they found nothing—and from the deputy's notes, everyone thought the kid had fallen into one of the mine's and was never found." He sifted papers again and pulled out photographs.

"Last week, these things were found—together."

He showed photographs of a small boy's shirt and other items. "The boy's sister insists this is the shirt the boy was wearing when he disappeared."

Again, Sara spoke first. "Why is this our case?"

Grissom turned one page so they could see it. They read the name of the child.

"The sheriff? His kid?" Sara asked. "No, thirty years ago—his brother?"

Grissom knew she was smart. His eyebrow lifted to match hers. "His brother—the sheriff was away at the time—in college, I believe. His sister and mother still live in the same town."

Greg nervously twisted in his chair. "Where did she find the shirt? How did we get it?" He knew the answer to his second question.

Grissom gathered the papers and photographs and slid them inside the folder. "The county sheriff has a full-time deputy stationed there now and everyone was happy to turn this over to someone else. I'm not sure where or how the sister found the shirt—something about an old box came into her possession. We'll get there in time to talk with her this afternoon."

Sara looked skeptical. She said, "Do you really think we'll find anything after all this time? Thirty years and a pretty common looking shirt."

"I don't think we'll find much. The sheriff asked, even arranged for day and swing shifts to work grave tonight and tomorrow night." Grissom shrugged as he counted money for the bill. "We might be surprised. Officially, this is training—unofficially, we take everything back and keep quiet." He knew the two with him were smart puzzle workers. He stepped to one side and let Greg walk ahead of him.

Sara felt his fingers touch her back as they left the restaurant. This was a casual touch, she thought, nothing more.

Two hours later, after driving along a lonesome highway, seeing remnants of places where people had worked and lived, they drove into a small town, one of those almost dying places, but maintaining a neat strip of old buildings along the highway. A steeple rose from an unseen church above the town. Grissom pulled to a stop in front of a store-front building where one patrol car was parked.

Greg muttered, "Who would ever put our sheriff here?"

The door of the sheriff's office opened for them. "Dr. Grissom?" asked the young man standing in the doorway. "I've been watching for you."

Sara and Greg glanced at each other with a look that said "not much to do here". They were ushered into a former store refurbished to be an official law enforcement office. Two desks, a number of chairs, including a recliner, an old sofa, and a folding table took up most of the space. A copier stood near the door.

The young man's name was Ed—he not only expected them, he had reserved two rooms at the local motel. Sara had seen the place coming into the town; an old tourist court that had also seen better days.

"Susan is working at the community center. She's the one you want to see." Ed spoke with a quiet, slow voice, almost stuttering over some words. He waved a hand around the room. "I—I don't—I know you work in a place a lot nicer than this one." His tanned face became slightly darker. "We don't have much crime—or anything else happening here." He started towards the back of the office. "We have space, back here." He opened a door in the rear.

Grissom, Sara, and Greg followed.

A wave of hot air blew in with the open door. The back room was a warehouse—or gutted two story building—large enough to store an ATV, a trailer, an old truck, assorted boxes and a pile of Christmas decorations. Someone had placed several tables in the middle of the space.

"I thought this might help when you get the stuff from Susan."

The four walked to the community center housed in a former church—not the one with the steeple, but a building just as old. An inscription on a bronze plaque beside the door proclaimed the building as historic, one of Nevada's earliest churches.

Greg had noticed faces in several store windows. He nudged Sara. "I think we are the day's excitement," he whispered.

Grissom and the local deputy were ahead of them by several yards talking about the town.

"From the looks of things, we are probably the excitement for the month."

Inside the community center, the Las Vegas team met Susan and several other women who were in the middle of organizing a community rummage sale. Boxes made a maze of the former church's formal place of worship.

"Thank you for coming," the sheriff's sister said.

The other women knew why they had come. No secrets here, Sara thought, or none were told; everyone had secrets.

Everyone gathered in a corner of the room. An old sheet had been thrown over several boxes.

Susan told an old story with a new chapter…


	3. Chapter 3

**Wherever We Are Chapter 3**

…Thirty years ago, her brother, age ten, had left home one morning, never to return. In a small town, kids did not go missing. Some thought he had run away; those who knew him, and the family, could not imagine this. Others thought he was simply lost and would show up in a few hours. Twenty-four hours later, the entire town was searching. They searched for days finding no trace, nothing. Any abandoned mine within a walking radius of town was searched—nothing.

Until last week, while unpacking things for the rummage sale, an old box had fallen apart in her hands, spilling contents at her feet. She found the shirt her brother had worn the day he went missing.

Sara and Greg listened and let Grissom ask questions. His first one was, "How do you know this is his shirt?"

The woman smiled. She resembled their sheriff in hair and eye color, the shape of her face, but feminine traits took over when she smiled. She softened; her face became younger as she talked about her missing brother.

"Evan was spoiled by all of us. He was our mother's change-of-life baby, I was fifteen years older—our older brother, Roy, your sheriff, was already in college. He gave Evan that shirt because it was the colors of his college."

"There must have been hundreds of shirts just like this one."

The woman looked at Grissom, her eyes becoming serious, shining with sudden tears. She blinked before pulling the sheet away from the stack of boxes. She opened the one on top and pulled out a small shirt. One of the other women smoothed the sheet across another box and Susan unfolded the shirt.

"Dr. Grissom, this shirt belonged to Evan. I'm positive." Her finger pointed to several small dark spots. "See these," she said. Her voice lightened as she talked.

"Evan had started a fire at home several days before he disappeared. He had a pack of firecrackers—those small ones that kids bought back then—and threw the lighted pack into the yard. Caught grass on fire and tried to put it out." She laughed at the memory. "Our parents were so angry—it could have been a disaster, but a neighbor kid helped put it out. In the process, Evan got these holes burned in his favorite shirt.

"He loved this shirt—it was the right colors—he wanted to be a Rebel just like his brother. He had worn it every day, all summer. My mom would sneak it in the washer. It's his shirt—but where has it been for thirty years?"

"We kept the box and we several boxes that were around it." Another woman said.

The reason for the stack of boxes explained.

Two women lifted several small jars from the top box and placed these items on the sheet. "This is what was in the box." The jars were filled with buttons, safety pins, thread in dozens of colors. There was an old canvas bag, zippered on one side with some type of lock at one end.

Sara and Greg had pulled on gloves as the objects were placed on the sheet. Greg picked up the bag looking perplexed.

Sara whispered, "It's an old bank deposit bag." It had been cut next to the zipper.

"We touched everything," Susan said as she watched Sara and Greg. "When we realized it was Evan's shirt, we put everything in another box."

Grissom asked, "What is in these boxes? Why did you put these aside?"

The four women explained the rummage sale as a community event. The center was opened each day and people brought donations in all year.

"These were in the back so we can make a guess that these boxes have been here for nearly a year. The one with the shirt was on the floor." The woman indicated the stack of boxes. "We never opened these."

Greg was turning each small jar in his hand. "There might be fingerprints on these."

"That's why I brought you, Greg."

Grissom and the deputy left to drive a vehicle to the community center so the boxes could be transported to the back room of the sheriff's office.

The women were relieved to have someone remove these boxes which seemed tainted with an unsolved mystery of the missing child. After Grissom left, they quickly changed the conversation to local talk—where to eat, the historic aspects of the town, the local gift shop. Greg and Sara managed to respond with polite answers and agreeable replies. They paid attention to directions to the two places to eat in town.

For the next hour, Sara and Greg opened each box in the collected stack, finding a jumble of things, but none seemed to be connected to a young boy. If anything, the boxes contained the remnants of a long forgotten closet—old shoes, old sweaters, various pieces of decorative china and glassware—but nothing gave any clue to the owner.

Greg found another group of small jars filled with buttons. "Hey, look at this—same kind of jars, same kind of buttons." But nothing indicated who or where this odd assortment of bits and pieces had originated.

Grissom had gotten a file from the deputy; only a few lined pages of notes made thirty years ago about a missing boy. A map, yellow with age, was spread across the table before him, black marks indicating places that were checked by searchers. He had the shirt and using a magnifying light he had brought from Las Vegas, he was collecting and labeling everything but dust in the air. He had found four dark spots that were not burn marks—possibly blood, but too many years had passed for his field testing to determine.

Sara had taken over dusting for prints finding mostly smudges on the small jars. The few clear prints would probably belong to the women at the community center. She fed a card into the reader which would transmit it to the lab in Las Vegas, thinking most of this was a useless exercise—most people had never been fingerprinted. She examined the bank bag finding one tiny bit of paper inside no larger than her fingernail.

Greg worked on listing every item taken from the boxes. He sneezed often, but he was organized, lettering each box, numbers on each item. Occasionally, he would lift an object and raise his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Sara or Grissom would provide an answer and he returned to work.

The deputy sheriff and Susan arrived late in the afternoon. Sara was not sure—did they expect some miracle solution in a few hours, she wondered. She and Greg got additional chairs and gathered around Grissom. He could explain what they were doing.

Sara was amazed that Grissom could take the simplest lab work and explain it in extraordinary terms or take the most complicated, complex project and break it down into an uncomplicated description. Today, he talked to Sheriff Atwater's sister, quietly telling her each step in the process of trying to piece together a cold case based on a missing child's shirt. In his gentle, soothing voice, he explained the odds.

"We know, Dr. Grissom, we will never know what happened to him. My mother has lived every day believing that Evan would walk in the front door on day. My brother and I know better. I—I haven't told her about the shirt. I didn't want to get her hopes up."

Grissom was quiet for a few minutes before he spoke. "Could we talk to your mother? There might be something she can tell us. I'd like to show her some of the things here."


	4. Chapter 4

**Wherever We Are: Chapter 4**

They left as a group, walking up a hillside street to a small house surrounded by a smaller flower filled yard. Sara saw Greg raise his eyebrows in surprise. They would keep the humble beginnings of their sheriff to themselves, she thought.

The mother of the missing child waited for them on her small porch puzzled about the unexpected guests arriving with her daughter. When introduced as friends of her son, the woman's lined face became similar to her daughter's. Her bright eyes did not dim as she related details of a day that changed her life forever.

"Evan was such a fun child," she said. "Long after I thought I had my family, he popped up—back then, women didn't show off being pregnant and especially when one was my age!" She had a small beauty shop and Evan was with her every day. Her husband delivered lumber and building supplies and was gone most of the day. The older woman related several stories about her husband's work until her daughter brought her back to Evan.

"The day he got lost—I never really believed he could be lost—he had been around these hills since he was old enough to walk alone—was like today, sky clear, not too hot, and it was a Monday. My shop was closed on Mondays and we had gone to clean up, get ready for the week." She was silent for several minutes. "After lunch, he wanted to run errands. People knew Evan—they would give him a dime or a quarter and he would go get lunch for them or take mail to the post office—get him to do things like that.

"The town was safe, Dr. Grissom. It was different back then. No one hurt children."

Sara, Grissom, and Greg knew the truth.

The old woman continued her story, living again the day her son disappeared. "By the time night fall came, we knew something had happened—most likely he was hurt, we thought. My husband and a group of men combed the town looking for him, but by midnight, most of them went home. The next morning, everyone knew he was gone—some thought he had run away, others thought he was hiding out in some kind of game, a few thought he had been kidnapped." She made a deep sigh. "I knew something had happened to Evan. He was a good kid, thoughtful, kind, did not do things that were hurtful—never.

"We called the sheriff—back then there were no child alerts—and he came with several men. They joined up with the townspeople and went to the mines. I knew what they were doing; the thought of my boy being down a shaft nearly drove me crazy, but, after a while, I got over that part of missing Evan."

She looked at Grissom, leaning toward him, as she said, "Something has happened—someone has found something. That's why you came all this way." She took Grissom's hand. "You are one of those people who look at evidence like I see on the television." She glanced at her daughter. "Tell me."

Grissom covered her hand. "Mrs. Atwater, a shirt was found—Susan thinks it belonged to Evan."

Sara could feel the breathing stop as the old lady's hand went to her chest.

"I knew something would be found one day—where?"

Susan said, "We found it in a box at the community center."

Momentary confusion showed on her mother's face. "The community center? It was a church back then—oh, the rummage sale!" There was almost a smile on her face. "Someone has forgotten—and who would think his sister would be the one to find it?"

Grissom interrupted with a question, asking, "Can you remember if the shirt was clean. Susan told us it was his favorite shirt—do you remember?"

She thought for a minute. "It was a Monday—he didn't wear it on Sunday. I washed on Saturday back then, so, yes, it would have been clean." She smiled. "As clean as a ten year old boy keeps his shirt."

Grissom asked if she would look at the other things found with the shirt and she agreed to meet them the next morning. The four left the two women sitting on the porch in the growing darkness. Greg, Sara, and Grissom left the deputy in his office, stopped at the local café and ordered carry out meals. Even Sara was showing signs of exhaustion as they pulled into the roadside motel.

It was a relic from the sixties; one long porch covered building with one door and one window per room. The parking lot was nearly full as they checked in. The clerk explained the cars as he showed them to two identical rooms—Pony Express fans had filled twelve of the fourteen rooms. An outdoor picnic area served as their dining table and the three ate and discussed what little evidence there was to find on a child's shirt.

"The shirt isn't dirty," Grissom said. "I combed everything from it and all I got were fibers—consistent with carpet. Nothing to indicate the shirt had been in a mine. So I don't think Evan got lost—there would have been some kind of plant trace. Someone took the shirt off the kid."

Greg had eaten his sandwich, his fries, and was edging toward Sra's chips. She slapped his hand away. He said, "What do you think happened?" Then in a conspiratorial voice asked, "Did Sheriff Atwater's dad do the kid in? Or did his sweet mother?"

Sara kicked him underneath the table. Grissom ignored what was going on.

"I doubt the mother did anything. We don't know much about the father, do we?" Grissom ate; Sara and Greg watched, knowing he was thinking. "Tomorrow maybe we can get more from the mother. I would like to know if Evan was running errands for anyone." He gathered his trash along with theirs and deposited it in a nearby can. "Right now, I'm going to sleep. Sara, you get a room to yourself and Greg and I get to share." He smiled—a grimace would be a better description. "Be quiet when you come in."

Hours later, Sara woke in the quiet, dark room. She never slept for long—three or four hours was usual—then she read, listened to music, or watched television for a couple of hours before falling back to sleep for a few more hours. This sudden change to night sleeping had thrown her off her normal pattern, but even exhaustion did not make her sleep soundly for more than four hours. She turned on the lamp and reached for her book. Almost immediately, she heard a light tapping on her door.

Grissom stood on the other side of her door. She opened it.

"Grissom."

_A/N: Thanks for reading--this one will be finished in 3 days. And yes, based on a director's comment about Gum Drops. Leave a review, next chapter up in a few hours._


	5. Chapter 5

**Wherever We Are: Chapter 5**

"Greg snores—can I come in?" He asked, standing in his bare feet, wearing sweat pants and a dark tee shirt.

"Sure."

He took no more than a few seconds to pass her, fold down the bedcovers on the empty bed and stretch out.

"What are you reading?"

Sara named the author, one of dozens of best-selling mystery novels. She started to explain, "I read between sleeping."

"I saw your light come on—I moved out a couple of hours ago, but it's very hard to sleep in a car seat."

Her mouth hung open for a few seconds before she snickered which developed into giggles before she could stop. "I'm sorry, Grissom."

He snorted. "It's not funny—the boy sounds like a train coming through a tunnel!"

She brought the pillow to her mouth as her giggles became laughter.

Grissom did not help when he raised his head and said, "It's not just snoring. He could peel paint, I'm telling you, the sounds the boy makes are enough to wake the dead—or make one wish he were dead." He said this without a hint of amusement in his voice. She laughed harder burying her face into the pillow as her body shook. In her mind she could see Greg sleeping in perfect contented slumber while Grissom tossed and turned and twisted. She laughed until tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

As she swiped an eye, a pillow smacked her head. He had thrown a pillow at her! He lay on the bed looking smug. Her mouth opened to make some retort but instead, her mind jumped back in time to pillow fights among foster kids and she grabbed the pillow with both hands. Never lose your pillow, she remembered. She was off the bed in seconds with the pillow raised above her head when she was stopped in her tracks by a head and two strong arms latched around her mid-section.

The head butt—if that's what it was, or just an attempt to recover his pillow—and weight behind the arms pushed her back across the bed as her pillow came down across the black tee-shirt. As he raised his head, he fit neatly between her arms as they both landed on the bed.

Briefly, only seconds passed, as they both laughed before either seemed to realize their positions. Grissom shifted slightly, a casual motion that closed the space between them. Sara's pulse raced; her heart sounded like the track at Daytona 500 on race day. Somehow, his fingers touched her neck. This was definitely not a casual sort of touch, she thought.

He leaned closer; she could feel his breath. She opened her lips, saying nothing but silently inviting him to kiss her. He responded, his mouth closing on hers, slowly, searching. She heard a soft sound and realized it came from her. At last, she knew his desire for her was real.

The surprise of his embrace, his kiss, set her senses blazing. After all the months of uncertainty, he was kissing her again. The heat of his body, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his arms around her, and the touch of his fingers incited some warm delicious, delightful pleasure deep within her. She responded. Her fingers laced through his hair, pressing them together.

He had stopped kissing her but kept her in the intimate enclosure made by his arms. "Do you have any idea," he whispered, "how many days and nights I've lain awake imagining what it would be like to kiss you again?"

Sara smiled. "Gil Grissom," she whispered. And she kissed him, finding no resistance as she opened her mouth, tasted his tongue, and smiled within her brain.

"To hear your laugh is an aphrodisiac." His hand gently tilted her head back so he could kiss her throat. He eased fingers through her hair and pulled the elastic band out of her ponytail allowing her hair to fall against his hand. She shivered. His fingers had moved to her shirt and she felt his fingertips against her skin. Knowing he was about to undress her, a flicker of panic came into her eyes.

Everything was happening to fast, she thought. Grissom wanted her, she knew by the heat pressing against her thigh. It was no longer a fantasy but a likely disaster; she was not prepared nor did she have anything with her that offered any kind of protection. They were not two teenagers, she thought.

Grissom was pushing her soft tee shirt toward her neck; his lips were on hers, distracting, disorienting, absolutely delirious, with desire.

Sara released her hold and flattened a palm against his chest. Uncertainty spiraled throughout her body. She knew she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone—she had for years. The desire was there, but tonight was not the right time. This was risky, and as much as she had dreamed of him, being in his arms, making love to him, she knew with certainty she had to slow down. She would be unable to hide the aftereffects of what they were about to do—she would be eating with him, working with him—all in front of Greg.

His hand stopped; his mouth came away from hers. He did not move. "I—is there something—someone else? Have I miscalculated?" he asked, his voice strangely hushed.

"No, definitely, no."

He smiled; his finger traced along one rib. The light in the room reflected in blue eyes that had become darker.

"Is there something I should know?" he asked with a seductive, dangerously enigmatic tug beginning at the corners of his mouth.

"No," she conceded. "No—yes." Her hands had found his face and her fingers moved around his ear, along his jaw until her thumb touched his lips. Gently, with a feathery touch, she traced his lips. "You have not miscalculated."

_A/N: You will get another one in a few hours! Sit and wait!! Or re-read! :)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Wherever We Are Chapter 6**

His look changed to amusement. "On the contrary, Miss Sidle, I believe I sense a shift in our environment, a change in circumstances." He calmly pulled her shirt down and placed his hand on top of it. He shifted again so he was beside her, sort of—somehow, their legs had become entwined and neither made an effort to untangle them.

Sara was confused, at a loss for words. She hesitated yet her hand remained on his face. She felt before hearing the deep chuckle that began in his chest. "I do believe we are in one of those situations where clear thinking is usually forgotten." His hand returned to her face. He leaned forward and kissed her again. "I do believe we need to be practical as well as realistic," he said as if he read her mind. "When we do make love, I do not want you to have regrets or misgivings or discomfort afterwards."

The hand that held her face moved to her neck. He kissed her again, deeply, opening his mouth, searching for her. She clutched his shoulders as she returned the rush of excitement, of passion, she felt from him. Without expressing words, a boundary had been drawn—for tonight.

"I always know when you are near me," he whispered after he had trailed kisses down her arm. "Anywhere, on the darkest night, your scent is in my memory." He pulled her closer.

She curled against his chest, her head on his shoulder. "Gil." She said his name in a soft breath of warm air that touched his skin in one place, yet its effect reached deep below the surface.

"Say it again."

"Gil," she whispered and he heard a soft laugh.

"Get some sleep, dear," he said as he buried his face in her dark hair. "We have many nights ahead of us."

Sara woke at daybreak—completely awake in seconds, knowing the warm body next to her was Grissom. Knowing her dream was no long a dream or a fantasy. He had kissed her, actually slept in bed with her. She made a quick survey of the damage—both were rolled together in a white cocoon of sheets, both fully dressed. And he was breathing the deep breaths of sound sleep. She placed her pillow next to him and carefully slipped out of the bed.

Sara picked up his key and her bag. She would let him wake alone, let him have time to recover, or whatever men did after jumping into bed with a woman and not having sex. She did not mind waking Greg. She grinned as she left one room and unlocked the one next door.

Greg was still asleep—still snoring. Not as bad as Grissom had made it out to be, but certainly loud enough to be bothersome to one accustomed to sleeping alone. If she snored, she did not know it and Grissom had slept practically on top of her. She couldn't keep the smile from her face, thinking about the totally unexpected event in the middle of the night.

Had Grissom really figured out what to do—by accident certainly—but he had made no effort to return to the empty bed, she thought, as she showered. She dried her hair and dressed before opening the door to find Greg rubbing his eyes as he searched for the remote. She was almost in front of him before he looked up.

"Sara—Sara?" He asked, confusion on his face. He looked at the rumbled, empty bed. "Where's Grissom?"

"My room—you snore, Greg." She slung her bag across her shoulder. "Get dressed; I'll go find something for breakfast." She picked up keys and left the room.

She drove to the local café with a smile on her face. There are days that are different. They may look the same to everyone else, but you wake and know with absolute certainty that you've been chosen, for reasons unknown to you, and without unnecessary effort, life as it was is changed. The sky was blue, a balmy wind moved leaves on the trees; no one else knew a change, a shift, had occurred—no one other than Grissom.

By the time she returned with take-out breakfast plates, Grissom and Greg were back in the same room with the door open, dressed and waiting for her return. Sara passed a plate to Greg who immediately walked to the same picnic table where they had eaten dinner. When she handed the foam container to Grissom, his fingertips touched hers—only for a few seconds, but enough to bring a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. The three made morning small talk for several minutes before Grissom brought up the reason for this trip.

"Tell me what you think," he said giving a slight nod to Greg.

Greg shook his head. "I'm lost. I mean I know why we are here, but just a shirt to go on? Those bottles are covered with smears and almost no useable prints. Maybe the mother can tell us something else once she looks at all that stuff. Right now, all we are doing is collecting, right?"

Grissom looked at Sara. She said, "The shirt is the only evidence we have that ties to the boy." She stirred her cereal. "How much of a coincidence is it that the sister would find the shirt? That aside—the mother may be able to shed new light on some of the things found in the boxes." She looked at Grissom. "The bank bag—that's another piece of evidence that may fit into this puzzle. We just do not have the connecting pieces."

Grissom nodded. "We don't have much. Greg, take the bank bag to the local bank—it's a branch of a large one, but someone might remember when one like that was used. I'll talk to the deputy—he thought there were more files from that year.

"Sara, you take the mother when she arrives." He shook his head. "A child missing this long, it's doubtful we can find anything. We are doing this for Sheriff Atwater. What we find, what happens here…" His eyes moved from Greg to Sara. They nodded in unspoken understanding.

The mother and daughter were waiting when the three arrived at the small, crowded office. Sara took the two women to the large back room where the contents of the boxes had been spread out, bagged and tagged, and photographed.

"It's his," the mother said as she lifted the wrapped shirt. "I'd know it anywhere." Her fingers traced the small burn marks in much the same way her daughter had done the day before. "His favorite shirt."

Sara removed it from the bag. Grissom had combed, rolled, and collected everything from the shirt. The old lady's hands folded around the fabric. "He's gone—I've known for years he died that day." She looked at Sara with sad eyes. "Do you have children?"

Sara shook her head.


	7. Chapter 7

**Wherever We Are Chapter 7**

Greg's trip to the town bank was more exciting, especially for the bank's employees and a few customers. With his vest, they seemed to know why he was in town. Three employees had worked in the bank for longer than thirty years. The women had individual reasons for remembering the day Evan Atwater disappeared. They also supplied a list of places—businesses, most closed and forgotten, and churches—who would have had a bank bag similar to the one he held.

"Check at the church—with the steeple. Nelda Owen has worked there for forty years," one woman suggested. She had the brightest red hair he had ever seen on a woman her age. "If I remember correctly, something happened to their deposit about the time of Evan's disappearance."

Before Greg left the bank, each one expressed a long-forgotten memory.

"I never thought he ran away."

"Evan was a good kid; we all knew him."

"His father never got over it."

With that statement, Greg asked about the father.

The red-haired employee explained, "Mr. Atwater looked for that child for years. Lost his job with the lumber yard because he spent so much time out in the hills and mines around here." She looked at the other women. "I think he died five years later—broken heart, I'd say." The other women nodded.

Greg knew they wanted an explanation of the bank bag and how it connected to the missing boy. He left without providing reasons for his inquiry knowing the entire population would know about his visit by noon.

Grissom found nothing in the dusty files; every crime for five years fit into a cardboard file box with room to spare. When the mother and daughter left, he joined Sara in the cavernous space behind the deputy's office.

"Hey," he said; his voice deep and hushed. Sara had heard him, his footsteps echoing as he approached. She had not looked up from repacking.

"Hi," she responded, keeping her head down. This was the first time they had been alone since he kissed her and she kissed him. His fingers came to rest on the edge of the table.

"Sara," her name left his lips on a breath of air—differently, she thought, and she looked up.

It was not his mouth she noticed first, but his eyes; the color had darkened yet reflected light from the high windows. Blue, she thought, the color of the morning sky.

He stood over her, trying to form thoughts into words. Seconds before she could say anything, he said, "Wherever we are, whatever we do, no questions, no doubts, just us." His lips edged upward into a grin. "We can't talk about this at work. Not yet."

She nodded. He had said "just us" making it sound as if they were already lovers—at least a couple, no longer supervisor and love-sick employee. She smiled and ducked her head. She was embarrassed to feel so giddy, so euphoric by his words.

Just as quickly, he turned to work asking what she had learned from the mother.

"Evan was running errands—he left his mom right after lunch. All this," she indicated the bottles and other items in the box, "seems to be random clutter." She picked up one of the small jars sealed in a clear evidence bag. "This is a cold cream container—very popular at one time." She lifted an eyebrow. "My theory is these containers belong to the same person who left the boxes—or perhaps a daughter or son of who filled these jars with buttons and threads. The shirt was a rag—no value, but gathered up with junk and thrown in a box. Susan thinks the bank bag—where is Greg? She thinks the bank bag was wrapped with the shirt, but can't be sure."

Grissom had moved a chair to sit across the table from her. He let her talk.

"But the shirt—why keep the shirt? I can understand one person keeping a box of junk for years, but I can't understand why someone who harmed a kid, or let's say killed him, would keep the shirt."

Grissom raked a hand through his hair. "Interrupted, maybe? The shirt is not grimy with dirt, but there are some stains—we can figure all that out back at the lab." He grinned again. "Sara." She looked at him. "Are you okay? With everything—between us?"

"I'm fine, Grissom." She gave him a broad, quick smile.

Noise signaled Greg's arrival with the bank bag and the deputy as Greg related his news from the three women with his usual animation and excitement. Sara watched, knowing that Grissom's patience with Greg could run thin. Today, Grissom almost smiled as the young man circled their chairs as he shared his news.

"The church—Ed, do we need to call Nelda Owen?" Grissom asked.

Ed's hesitation was normal, setting his thoughts into words before speaking. "No, Nelda's been at that church all my life—she's there."

If the three CSIs had been asked to describe a small church secretary, Nelda Owen would have provided the original model. Slightly built, wearing a dress and sweater in a style from a couple of decades past, her hazel eyes sparkled and her mouth had an instant smile when Ed opened the door.

Quick introductions and explanations were provided to explain the strangers visit.

"Evan Atwater," she sighed as she said the name. "We don't hear his name anymore, but most of us left here remember the day he disappeared like it was yesterday. Back then, kids did not go missing—no Amber alerts, no internet, no television reports—I guess kids did disappear but you just didn't hear about it."

Greg handed her the bank deposit bag without saying anything.

"My goodness." Nelda Owen turned the bag over in her hands. "I'd bet my life this is the church's bag. The last time I saw it, I handed it to Evan. He was a sweet kid, always coming around offering to do errands. He had taken the Sunday collection to the bank dozens of times."

They stood around her as she recounted a long-ago story. "I tried to tell the sheriff about the deposit—mostly checks back then—but his idea was Evan had lost the bag and ran away. Back then, I was already an old maid, female, no one of importance, but I never thought Evan ran away—even if he lost the bag, he would not have run away." She passed the bag back to Greg.

"You need evidence and I might have something that will help." She rummaged around in a drawer for a ring of keys. "Come with me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Wherever We Are Chapter 8**

The four followed her as she went downstairs, opened two locked doors and entered a basement room filled will boxes. "Church files. I've put them down here for years—mostly deaths, baptisms, budgets. I started working here before I graduated from high school—took bookkeeping and shorthand in high school—that's my qualifications for the job."

Nelda opened a box. File folders almost filled the box, each file labeled with its own subject. Organization taken to an entire new level, Sara thought.

"This is last year. Let's find thirty years ago." She walked along the narrow aisle. Grissom nodded for Sara to follow.

The two women stopped in front of a box. "Back then, it took two or three boxes for a year. We used little envelopes for everyone's contribution and I bundled each week's stack together. I also made a list of all the checks given." She searched one box, then opened a second one. "Here they are. The week the deposit went missing, I had to ask everyone who had written a check to write another one."

Sara was amazed. Thirty years of paperwork, filed away and never looked at again. The small woman before her seemed to read her thoughts. "This is what I've done my entire career, Miss Sidle. It's not important for the rest of the world, but I've always tried to do the right thing. If any of this will help Evan's mother find out about her little boy, then all of it has been worth every minute."

All Sara could do was nod before asking, "Can we take these boxes with us? We'll get it back to you."

Her laugh was one expected of a woman who had worked in a church all her adult life, soft and quiet. "Sure. No one has looked at this stuff since I put it down here."

Greg and Ed took the church's boxes back to the vehicle and spent the next ten minutes transferring the other boxes from the back room, nearly filling the back of the SUV. In their absence, lunch had appeared in carry-out boxes.

Ed explained the lunches. "I asked the café to send lunch—you wouldn't get to eat much over there—everyone knows you are here. Everyone would have an idea or want to gossip."

Grissom thanked him for his consideration as they opened clam-shell Styrofoam to find thick roast beef sandwiches and chips and pickles. An apple pie was wrapped separately. Without saying a word, Grissom passed his chips to Sara, giving her a slight shrug. She handed her sandwich to Greg.

Ed was a small town deputy and he was observant. From a cabinet, he brought a jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of bread and placed both in front of Sara. She made her own sandwich as the men ate and talked, not about the case, but about small towns and big cities, dying communities and boom-town growth.

Grissom drove as they left the small town. They had found more than they thought they would but the pieces of the puzzle had not fallen together.

"What do you think?" Greg asked Grissom as they traveled the lonely highway.

Grissom had claimed the straw hat as his and had worn it all day with the exception of their visit to the church. Now, he lifted it from his head and put it in Sara's lap, combing his hand through his hair.

"Nelda Owen is probably right. Evan Atwater went missing because of that deposit—someone thought it had cash in it—probably someone the boy knew. I'm with Sara, I don't understand the shirt; why keep the shirt? Then, why keep the bank bag? Someone grabbed the bag, hurt or killed the boy, and someone else found the shirt and bag, threw it in a box without knowing what it meant.

"Thirty years ago, no body, nothing but a shirt. We'll work with what we've got, give it all to the sheriff, but don't expect to close this one—too much time has passed, to little evidence. You were there—everyone in town knows why we were there—this is one case that will remain a mystery."

He turned the music up, glanced at Sara. "We have tonight off—we can drop these boxes at the lab and have a good sleep before we get back to work."

But city crime never sleeps; a case involving insects kept Grissom at the lab. Sara and Greg hauled boxes into the lab and left, both getting a ride as day shift was leaving.

…Another case, and another night's work multiplied into more days and nights of overtime and doubles.

The shirt, the bank bag, the few fingerprints were passed through the lab with the results going to Grissom who spent a long day explaining what was found to the sheriff. Sara worked through the church records finding one name who had not written a second check to the church the week Evan disappeared. The tiny fingernail sized paper found in the bank deposit bag came from a check, a common, impossible to trace scrap that became a dead end. Grissom passed the information to the sheriff along with Sara's notes. Sheriff Atwater knew the three CSIs had been thorough as well as silent about this case; he never heard a whisper about this unsolved cold case.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Here another chapter today! Because so many have left a review or a PM--Thanks so much!! S-M-U-T (little bit)---_

**Wherever We Are Chapter 9**

…Grissom had not forgotten sharing Sara's bed; she remembered and replayed the incident over and over, especially when she was alone, trying to sleep after a long shift. A case that put Sara's life in immediate danger finally pushed him into action.

"I'll take you home," he said from the locker room door.

She smiled. "I'm fine, really."

He came in and sat down beside her, his fingertips met in a nervous gesture. "I—I mean, let's go to dinner—just us."

Sara pressed her lips together in a suppressed smile. She remembered asking him to dinner once. She also remembered his words of "just us" from the morning after they slept together.

What she wanted to do was put her head on his shoulder and rest, let his arms go around her and feel his warm breath against her skin. She quickly decided to advance this opportunity.

"Grissom, would you come to my place? To eat?" She did not want to give him the chance to say no. "I—I can cook something easy. I don't mind cooking—after this case, I'd like a little quiet." Realizing what she had said, she added, "with you."

He grinned. "That would be nice. Is an hour enough time?"

An hour, sixty minutes—Sara could pull off eggs and juice and toast and a shower—if she hurried.

Grissom arrived in less than an hour to find a clean smelling Sara opening her door to him. The hair on the back of his head was still damp from his shower. Her hair was still wet and pulled back; he knew her hair curled when wet and had never figured out the process of how she got it straight.

"It's the ponytail, isn't it?"

Sara was confused. "My ponytail?" She asked.

"To straighten your hair—is that how you get it straight?"

She laughed, that deep chuckle that became an aphrodisiac to his ears—arousing a sexual desire that he found difficult to suppress as he stood in her doorway.

He had not arrived empty-handed, bringing some kind of gourmet juice he had picked up at the nearest market. Their hands touched as she reached for the juice and, in the pale amber light from outside, the simple exchanged moved them together.

When they kissed it was as if they were together the first time, as if they had never been apart, and the passing years became seconds.

"Do you remember the room?" He asked when they parted, referring to a hotel room in San Francisco when they had known each other less than three days. They had spent one warm, sunny afternoon being tourists before working up courage to open a door that had eventually led to Las Vegas. Sara knew then she would never love another man.

Her breath came out as a sigh as they separated. She had not realized how tightly she had been holding herself until now, when every muscle in her body loosened as she put her head on his shoulder.

They stood in each other's arms, their bodies curving together, softness and hardness fitting together. His hands moved over her body, shaping, molding it into his brain. She slipped hands between their bodies and slid her fingers and palm along his chest, listening to the soft breaths from his body, loving the feeling of knowing he had finally come to her.

"You are a very determined woman, Sara Sidle. If we continue in this direction, we leave our work at the door." He whispered in her ear as his hand held her head against his shoulder in a gentle embrace.

Sara was unable to speak. Excitement snapped through her causing a warming in her body. "I understand," she finally said.

His arms had reached around her, holding her against his body so tightly she could feel the heat emanating from his body; one place in particular seem to swell against her body.

"Every time I contemplate the prospect of intimacy with you, I tremble," he whispered.

She kissed his neck before speaking. "I feel nothing but warmth," she said as she breathed against his skin. She felt a low, hungry moan deep in his chest.

His lips found hers and a glorious, dizzying sensation cracked throughout her body; emotions she would only reveal to him. He pressed against her, his hand sliding to her hips bringing her even nearer to his own aroused body, rigid with desire.

He drew a deep breath. "Logic tells me this is not a good idea, but for days I have not been able to listen to logic."

She smiled. "There are things of equal importance."

Grissom kissed her again, his arms encircled her back, his hand found the edge of her top, and when his fingers moved upward, across her back, and curled to find her breast, she was surprised at the rush of pleasure she felt as he cradled it in his palm; of the comfort she felt within the fold of his arms.

Somehow, as lovers find, food was forgotten and clothes were removed and they found themselves on her bed. He said her name "Sara" and the passionate sound of her name on his lips shut everything out.

"You take away my breath—so perfect, so beautiful," he said as his thumb circled her nipple. Gradually, his hands moved, followed by his mouth sending waves of shivers pulsing through her. His fingers touched her inner thigh; fingertips that handled fragile evidence, that held delicate butterflies, played along her skin.

"I've dreamed of you, of us…" one said.

They found each other, as starving people for food; they could not eat or drink enough.

"So much better than a dream," she said, her voice as soft as an afternoon breeze. They were so closely entwined they made one shadow on the wall beside the bed.

At some point, he managed to find a small square packet in his jeans. Sara giggled. "Only one?" She asked.

He growled—actually made the sound of an angry tiger—and she laughed again as she opened a drawer beside her bed and pulled out a box of a dozen condoms.

"I was afraid a box along with the juice might be too pretentious," he mumbled as he attempted to open the packet. She took the colorful square and held it between her teeth to tear it open. She rolled above him taking his erection in her hands and caressing him with her fingers. She slipped lower and touched him with her tongue, wanting to give him the same pleasure he was giving her. He sucked in his breath and she felt his fingers clench in her hair.

"Enough," he rasped just as she slipped the condom over him. He groaned and she smiled. He tugged her upward.

His hand roamed restlessly from her bent knee to her thigh; his thumb found her intimate folds and she opened to him as his gentle fingers stroked her, watching her face. She forgot to breathe as a finger entered her body, and seconds later, found a nest of nerve endings that sent shock waves of pleasure to the center of her brain.

As she stretched along his body, he moved, keeping her within an embrace of legs and arms and said her name. "Sara."

The way he said it was a caress, spoken as no one else ever said her name. She closed her eyes. She had reached that shimmering, sparkling edge of last conscious thought when he firmly positioned hands on her hips and rolled to reverse positions.

"Open your eyes," he said. "I want to see you." He entered her easily each knowing the other had been put on earth, this time and place, for no other purpose. The powerful wave of passion hit Sara first and her eyes closed as rippled waves swelled to a tsunami. She was vaguely conscious of some sound coming from him seconds before he covered her with his body, and seconds later felt his lips along her neck moving from collarbone to her ear.

Sara stroked his hair, lifting a curl so it wrapped around her finger. She wanted him to speak, say something that would not break the spell. He kissed her again.

"You are beautiful, Sara."

She smiled.

_A/N: One more chapter for this one. Thanks for reading, thanks for your great comments! Enjoy your night (or day)!_


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: _The last chapter--thanks for reading, thanks especially for all the suggestions, some we worked into this story (thanks!!) And thank you for your comments! We read all of them, laugh at some, and appreciate you taking time to read and comment! _

**Wherever We Are Chapter 10**

When she woke, the sun filtered around the dark blinds. She opened her eyes and found him watching her. She smiled, "I dreamed of this, of waking and finding you here."

He slipped an arm around her and cradled her to his chest. She kissed his chest, the hollow of his throat, his chin. Making love to him was right, and strong, and complete.

He raised himself on an elbow, leaned over and kissed her eyes, her lips, moving to her breasts, slowly, teasing, while his hand moved lightly along her abdomen, her belly, her hip. She lay still, letting waves of sensation build within her as she floated in another dream.

They made love slowly the second time, tasting each other, learning the sounds and movements that only a lover knows and remembers. Laughter came as they talked through the long afternoon; the sounds from outside drifted over the bed as if from some distant place.

Sara stretched, remembering the weight of his body on hers, the surprise in his eyes each time they became as one, the deep laughter in his voice; she loved him with a passion that astonished her with its intensity.

He, in turn, kissed her; holding her face with both hands and kissing her lips, her nose, gentle brushes against her skin. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth as she did his. He kissed her breast circling her nipple and causing a sweet wave of pleasure and a gasp of delight to come from Sara. She knew he smiled as he heard her and his hand moved between her legs.

Much later, after they both slept, they drank warm juice and shared an omelet. They sat at the small table, eating slowly, talking of their lives in another world and how they had found each other. He soothed her doubts, erased any element of embarrassment, assured her work would not interfere with their new relationship.

They would work together, always professional, almost always cautious and careful, attempting to keep their personal lives separate from the lab. Together they learned the language of lovers, not always words, but with their eyes, with a touch, a gesture that had meaning only to them. When Nick was almost lost, both realized the fragile existence of life and rarely spent another night alone. It took Grissom much longer to convince Sara to combine their possessions into one home—until he promised her a dog.

Evan Atwater, whose disappearance had brought them together, remained a mystery, an unsolved cold case. Many months later, when Grissom and Sara needed a well connected political friend, Roy Atwater, no longer sheriff but still with influence, remembered their work and insisted both keep their jobs without censure or demotion.

Nearly a year later, before Grissom left the lab for the last time, he received a short email from Ed, the deputy. The man who had never written a second check to the church had been found—Alzheimer's disease had taken his mind. The man's wife remembered the day she found the shirt and the bank bag stuffed in a car trunk. For thirty years she had carried a terrible secret with her. Her husband had written a check to the church for more than they had in their account; he wanted to retrieve his check before it was deposited, the boy refused to give him the bag, and in the scuffle little Evan Atwater had hit his head on a concrete curb. The child never woke up and she had never asked her husband what he had done with the body or why he kept the shirt or bank bag. Ed's last sentence was, "Nelda Owen knew your lady friend would figure it out."

It would be these early days, a simple pillow thrown in a roadside motel, of a road trip, of a frightening attack by a crazed patient that brought Grissom to her door, of days and nights spent in bed, eating and reading and loving each other without intrusion from others, that eventually made each realize how strong their love had become.

An intimate gesture by Grissom led to an event of far-reaching consequences—Sara knew she had to leave Las Vegas, not Grissom, never the one person she loved more than life, but the darkness, the sadness, the desperation at the end of life. The death of co-worker and protégé, Warrick Brown, would send Grissom on a similar path, before he decided he, too, must leave to find sunshine, to find peace, to find Sara. In the end, wherever they were, whatever they did, no questions, no doubts, together is where they belonged.

The End


End file.
